


there's sanctuary in your arms

by ekoroshia



Category: New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nonverbal Communication, and the aftermath, ouma's more of a background, some ndrv3 spoilers, violent episodes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-11
Updated: 2018-06-11
Packaged: 2019-05-20 22:23:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14903208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ekoroshia/pseuds/ekoroshia
Summary: Lately, Saihara finds he isn't quite sure who he is.





	there's sanctuary in your arms

He’s choking.

_What’s happening?_

He can’t think.

_Where am I?_

He doesn’t remember.

_What were you doing?_

He doesn’t remember.

A beat of silence, and then a voice.

_...Who are you?_

. . .

Saihara Shuichi didn’t think he was the type of person to willingly engage in violence. During the killing game he hadn’t raised a hand against anyone, and had never so much as thought about actually killing any of his classmates. He didn’t think he had ever been that sort of person.

But here he was, surrounded by splintered wood and scattered paper, the entirety of his room looking like a small tornado had swept through it. Until a few seconds ago there had been nothing going through his mind, but it was the loudest “nothing” he’d ever heard. It had been deafening, like listening to static in headphones at night, with the volume turned all the way up.

He hadn’t been aware of what his body was doing, and now, as he stood in the center of his room like he was in the eye of a storm, everything broke. His legs shook and his fingers trembled, and he only vaguely registered the sound of his lock being fiddled with.

The part of him that had been able to process the clicking sound that belonged to someone picking the lock bitterly laughed at the kind of reaction whoever that person was would have upon seeing his room. It was nothing short of chaotic. His mirror was smashed - which explained the blood on his knuckles - and the handle to his closet had been snapped clean off.

Papers were scattered everywhere, some torn into pieces, some intact, and the mug he had so treasured (a gift from the one boy who had captured his attention from the moment they met) lay in pieces against the wall. What would he think, to know that his gift had been thrown from one end of the room to another with all Saihara’s strength? He let his eyes slide shut, back still turned to the door, and he crumpled.

Underneath him, his legs stopped supporting him, and he fell to a heap on the floor.

And then, he cried.

He’d never been a noisy crier, but his mouth was open wide in a silent scream as he wept without tears. Twisting long fingers into the blanket that had been torn through and now lay across the floor, Saihara found he couldn’t breathe again.

Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.

There was only the sound of his own fractured feelings, halfway to sorrow but not willing to make the final stretch. The static was back again, filling his head and dulling every sound except itself. Like being underwater. Like drowning.

He didn’t register the door opening, didn’t hear the shocked sound that came from the person in the doorway. Didn’t look back to see the way their face contorted with horror and sadness. Saihara simply wailed in silence, gasping for air as his body twitched and spasmed in the effort to catch any small volume of oxygen to keep him from fainting.

He saw the shoes come to stand in front of him, but he didn’t really register whose they were. Fingers came to tangle in his hair, tugging and pulling at the dark locks, and it took him a few moments to process that they were his own. The person in front of him knelt suddenly, their knees hitting the carpet in front of his face, and he felt a strong grip on his wrists, gently but firmly pulling his hands away.

Saihara went limp. his mouth closed and his forehead fell forward to rest on the floor. His hands were tugged lightly down, and when they reached the side of his head, the guest shifted their grip to hold his hands, rather than his wrists.

He hadn’t realised his nails were digging into his palms enough to draw blood.

But the hands holding his were warm, and his eyes slid shut, surrendering to that feeling of being held in even the smallest of ways. His energy had subsided, and he had burnt out. A candle flame that had extinguished itself and was left nothing more than a few wisps of smoke. It seemed this was often how these things played out for him.

He wasn’t like Ouma, who seemed to have mastered letting his frustrations out in convoluted and disguised ways. Nor was he like Chabashira, who wore her heart on her sleeve. Instead, he bottled everything up until the glass that had been containing everything cracked under the pressure. And when that happened… Well, the carnage in his room was more than enough evidence that he was sorely lacking in any good way to deal with it.

Until that point, he hadn’t noticed the toll his fit had had on his body. But, noting the slight dampness and slick feeling on his forehead (blood, something in the back of his head supplied), and the way he suddenly felt fatigued, Saihara couldn’t help but sigh. From somewhere above him there was a low mumble, asking if he was calmer now, and he hummed an affirmative in response.

“Can I help you stand, or shall I join you on the floor?” The very thought of that sent a breathless chuckle past Saihara’s lips, though it sounded more like a wheeze to his ears. He tapped his fingers against the person’s hand - once, meaning he would like to try and stand now.

He couldn’t see, but he knew the person was smiling down at him. The thought sent a faintly warm feeling into his chest.

“Alright Saihara. I’m going to stand up now, what you need to do is follow my movements. I’ll catch you if you stumble.” Another tap on the back of the hand. Saihara understood.

He felt a tugging on his arms as his companion stood, and he slowly rose with them. His eyes never left the floor between his feet, but when his legs trembled again and refused to support him, he let the weight of his body carry him into the person’s chest. Whether for casual affection, an intimate embrace, or a way of supporting him, he seemed always to find a home in their arms.

Still he hadn’t looked up to see their face, but he would recognise those clothes anywhere. There was, after all, only one man he knew who wore striped shirts with that particular decal. It seemed this time, too, Amami had been the one to find him.

Somewhere deep down, he supposed it was a good thing Amami had asked Ouma to teach him how to pick locks. If he hadn’t, things might have escalated for Saihara, trapped in his self-made prison.

Saihara let a tired sigh leave him, and felt more than heard the low, breathy laugh that bubbled up through Amami’s chest. Neither of them spoke, but when Amami circled an arm around the back of his legs and an arm around his back, and lifted him up, Saihara turned his face into the fabric of Amami’s shirt. He wasn’t ready to look at the mess he’d caused. For now, he just wanted to rest.

He felt himself sway slightly as Amami walked over to the door, and though he saw nothing, he heard the click of the door behind them, and felt the change in temperature. Amami had deemed his room unfit for resting in tonight, and was taking him to Amami’s own.

As they crossed that short distance, Saihara faintly heard Ouma’s uncharacteristically calm voice ask Amami if he was okay. He listened to the rumble of Amami’s voice as it carried through his chest, and knew that he was telling Ouma in as few words as possible what had happened.

It wasn’t strange to any of those in their former class that Saihara had episodes like this. Ever since the ending of the killing game, and the discovery of it all being a simulated environment, Saihara had been slowly regaining fractions of his original personality. As was the case for all of them, in fact.

Some changed only a little, like Ouma, who only seemed to become calmer, more empathetic. He fought less and tried to get along well with everyone just a little bit more than he had before, but he still had that same streak of mischief, that same aptitude for slyness, and it seemed you could never take lies from him.

In some there was no change to be found. Amami himself had remained much the same. It seemed as though his naturally secretive and deceptively laid-back persona was popular enough as it was, and was not overridden to any significant extent.

Some changed more drastically, like Saihara himself, who found the contrast between who he used to be, and who he was during the game difficult to cope with. It sent him into fits of panic, and all of his former classmates knew it. He struggled to marry the version of himself that had experienced the killing game with the version of himself that was relayed to him as being “the real Saihara Shuichi”. The boy who dreamed of killing and being killed was a far cry from the truth-seeking detective he had thought himself to be.

It had slowly begun to eat away at him, and by now everyone had witnessed to one degree or another the consequences of the discovery and the effect it had had on Saihara. Amami, though, had seen him at his very worst. Like tonight, for example.

As it was though Ouma understood very well what it was like to have violent outbursts, and often recognised the signs of a pending one from Saihara. Even if he wasn’t there to catch the act and stop Saihara from doing too much damage, he tried to give good words and advice to whoever it was who had found him. Much of that entailed pointing them in Amami’s direction.

The gentle murmur of his name brought Saihara out of his thoughts, and he raised his head for the first time to look at Amami. At that alone, Amami smiled. Reassuring and gentle, and oh so full of love. It almost made Saihara duck his head again out of embarrassment.

He didn’t need to speak, not really, but Amami always seemed to go the extra mile when it came to caring for Saihara, and so he, in that soft voice of his, gently asked if Saihara would prefer to shower now, or later. Saihara shook his head, and Amami understood. He would shower later. At this moment, he was tired.

Amami shut his door behind them, pushing it closed with his foot, and kicked off his slippers without jostling Saihara. He’d gotten remarkably good at moving with a full body in his arms, though Saihara supposed that was the natural consequence of the way things had turned out. They moved towards the bed, and Amami set him down. They were both still in their usual clothes, and Saihara shrugged his jacket off, handing it to Amami to fold neatly over the back of his chair.

For his part, Amami removed most of his piercings, the ones that couldn’t be removed for the night remained, but he switched the ring in his eyebrow for a barbell. So that it wouldn’t get in the way or snag on anything during the night. Saihara watched his movements, and were it anyone else Amami might’ve gotten embarrassed. But this was Saihara, and so he felt entirely at ease.

Once he was finished, he pulled off his socks, set his rings on the table, and moved back towards where Saihara sat, waiting, on the edge of his bed. This room was as familiar to Saihara as his own was, and he knew every second of Amami’s routine before bed, but still observed him every time.

He didn’t speak, and when Amami finally looked back at him, Saihara couldn’t help the tired smile that tugged at his lips. He felt almost nothing but for a small flicker of warmth deep within his heart at the way Amami looked at him. Like he was the most beautiful person in the world.

Amami circled to the other side of the bed, and Saihara felt the bed dip beneath him, before a hand came to tug him down to lie facing Amami. He felt Amami loosely drape his arm over Saihara’s waist, and their legs tangled together instinctively. Sometimes he felt he could lose himself in the feeling of safety this boy blessed him with.

In the morning, they would clean Saihara’s room together, and talk about what had set him off this time. But for now, as Saihara felt Amami press a kiss to his forehead, nose, and then a chaste kiss to his lips, all he wanted to do was sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> so... guess who has violent episodes sometimes and wanted to convey the way it feels using saihara  
> and then of course i thought to myself well i can't let saihara's end alone... so i threw amami at him as i always do, and then they saved each other
> 
> sometimes mental illness isn't a fun and #quirky time. but i figure if you have a handsome boyfriend to stop you from spiraling further, then i guess it all balances out in the end
> 
> hope you enjoyed


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